


Shades

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [75]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1998: Entirely by accident, Ray and Renfield end up coming out to the 27th Precinct. And Ray's family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Dearest Renfield,

I have read over your letter several times since its arrival. I am sorry for the delay in my last response; I know you have forgiven me, but I feel the need to reiterate as I regret that my reply arrived too late to ease your mind. As a child you often bounded ahead of me to seek your own path. I am happy to see the trend continues.

Your letter had an unusual lengthy quality, Renfield. One might suspect another man of gushing. I am only teasing, of course; you have told me much about this Ray of yours, but I would like to hear still more. It was a relief. Forgive my candor, but you have been quiet these past few years. It would seem this man is good for you.

You have my heartfelt blessings, Renfield. I want to meet your Ray.

I have delayed the completion of this letter for the sake of certain tests. We have discovered today that I will be adding another set of twins to the Turnbull family. This was unexpected. I am working to accept this news. I know that you will be happy.

Should I have sons, one will indeed be named for you.

I will update you again soon.

All my love.

Myra


	2. Crickets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Neither man noticed as the 27th precinct ground to a slow halt._

Renfield Turnbull drifted into the 27th precinct with an envelope of official correspondence and a friendly, if outwardly vacant, smile.

It was left with Lieutenant Welsh, as these things usually were, and the man seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Renfield had failed to drift back out. Renfield liked to find a reason to linger. He was used to this. He guessed Welsh didn't really blame him.

He hadn't drifted for long before settling in a chair on the opposite side of Raymond Vecchio's desk.

Ray looked up from a mess of paperwork and they shared a soft expression as Renfield took up one of the many file folders and paged through with half-interest. It was as good a feigned reason to stick around as any; the fact was that Renfield was somewhere in the _stratosphere_ , metaphorically speaking.

He didn't really see the file. He looked up again to find Ray watching him with a knowing little grin.

 _You're mooning._

Renfield actually winked before looking back to the page. _Perhaps I am._

The normal buzz of the precinct faded to the background of the peaceful, parallel not-quite-work. When it was that either man's free hand drifted across the desk to glance the backs of his fingers off the other, Renfield wasn't sure. The gesture flowed easily and he wasn't even certain of which of them initiated it. He would later reflect that it must have been Ray, but Renfield answered in kind without so much as a stray thought of reservation.

It was an absent kind of electricity, the back of Ray's hand drawn slowly across the back of his own, fingers linking through now and again. Little thumb-strokes and caresses. Heady familiarity, contradiction though that should have been.

Neither man noticed as the 27th precinct ground to a slow halt.

The die-off of chatter and milling of the mass of people eventually filtered in. Peace gave way to realization. Renfield raised his eyes to meet Ray's; they'd apparently twigged at about the same time.

There might as well have been crickets.

A mix of fear, pride, and a trickle of cold struck at Renfield. Ray only seemed to display quietly thrilled amusement.

Green eyes were easy to get lost in, even with the question in them, and Ray's hand was easy to hold on to. Perhaps... perhaps they could just... stay that way and wait for people to go back to their business. Those eyes could hold him. They could concentrate on one another until everything else fell away.

Mischief in that question flashed across Ray's eyes.

No. No, Renfield didn't suppose they would.

Giddy defiance flared. He chewed down a grin, giving the barest nod.

Ray was up out of his chair before his folder had hit the desk.

"What, you people got a problem?" It was that beautifully classic Vecchio attitude, arms out, all fiery indignation and bluster. He waved his arms in a wide shooing sort of motion and stepped out from behind his desk, wandering between gawkers as if to personally challenge them.

"You'd think you people never saw a Mountie before," he aimed at Jack Huey, who threw his hands up in a kind of shocked surrender.

Ray turned his bluster back on the crowd at large, some of whom backed away, but none stopped staring. "Somebody got a camera? Picture'll last longer! What, somebody fill your socks with sour milk? What's with the pinched look, Dewey? Your ma never tell you if you make stupid faces your face'll get stuck like that? Might explain a few things, pal."

Dewey crossed his eyes to try and look at his own wrinkled nose before looking dumbly offended and backing off. Still, people stared. Even Welsh had stuck his head out the door to investigate the apparent one-man show.

Ray stared back for a long moment of chin-tipped silence.

Renfield had balled his fist and pressed it to his very red forehead, trying to decide if he should laugh or run far, far away.

Ray wasn't done. "Should I sell tickets? Make myself a profit? What's with you freakin' perverts, anyway? Parents never teach you to mind your own damn business? You people want a show? Nothin' better to do? All the crimes in the greater Chicago area miraculously solved themselves? You want me to throw him on my desk and make out with him? Go about your business, people, come on, move it, move it..." There was more exaggerated shooing. Ray probably would have made an entertaining traffic cop.

Oh. Oh God. Renfield loosed a high-pitched little laugh, unable to contain it. It was that or take Ray by the hand and fight his way out of there.

Apparently that was enough to clear most people out. The sussurus and motion of bodies slowly began again, this time with a decidedly excited, gossiping flavor.

Most people. Not all.

Francesca Vecchio looked like she hadn't breathed for some time. The stack of papers she held was incomplete; much of them had scattered to the floor.

Ray bent to sweep the fallen papers into a haphazard mess of a stack and plonked them in Francesca's hands. He settled in front of her, arms out, eyebrows up in defiant questioning. "What, Frannie?"

There was no immediate answer. She gestured with her mess of paperwork, squinting, quite agape. "What-- what?"

"Rules ain't changed since we were kids, Frannie: you snooze you lose, finders keepers, all that good stuff. You missed your chance."

Ray rolled his shoulders, looking quite satisfied with himself. It was tempered with the softness of giving Francesca a brief touch to her upper arms, before Ray spun around to retake his seat across from Renfield.

Renfield had long since hit the desk, head rested on his arms, and from there he looked up at Ray. Something in his chest was constricted.

Ray beamed beautifully at him, that painfully suave expression of knowing exactly what it was he'd done with absolutely no shame for it, and offered Renfield a wink.

All... all right. Renfield breathed in. There it was. Oh, this was probably going to be a few shades of trouble, but when he breathed out, Renfield was laughing.


	3. Like Fallin' Off a Cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welsh and Vecchio have a little talk about Vecchio's display in the precinct.

It was times like this where Welsh was certain that Vecchio had never made it past the age of sixteen.  There was a good deal of evidence to that particular thought: He was vain about his clothes, vain about his car, exuded a fundamental disrespect for authority that often made working with him... entertaining, and most of all, he was absolutely certain that if he could just cow the world into submission with bluster and attitude, he could get away with his transgressions.  Conversely, when it was clear that the world wouldn't submit, Vecchio would throw even _more_ attitude at it, utterly unwilling to bend to the idea that a diplomatic approach might be the answer.

So, Harding Welsh was sitting at his desk, and Ray Vecchio was standing across it coiled like a man about to leap with his arms out, defensive and ready, having just quite publicly declared that he was hooked up with another guy to the entire precinct.

Welsh had no real opinions one way or the other on homosexuality.  Well, perhaps that was a lie.  There was that once in the sixties...

"So, do you want to explain what that was, Detective?" he asked, mildly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on his belly.

"It's no one's business, sir," Vecchio replied, narrowing his eyes briefly.

"It is if you make it their business," Welsh said.  He never let anything other than that mildness into his voice.  Which was pretty easy, since he felt very mild for the moment about it.  "How long has this been going on?"

"It's none of your business, either, sir."  Vecchio's shoulders rolled a bit, and he stared like he was outright _daring_ Welsh to say otherwise.  Like he wanted nothing more than to throw down and duke it out.

Welsh knew a few things about that.  He knew a lot of that bluster was a front.  He knew that Vecchio used it like armor.  He knew that right now, the detective was probably just having it sink into his head what it was he had done without thinking, and was probably fairly nervous for it.

And, frankly, he had every reason to be nervous.

Welsh wasn't one of those reasons.  He really didn't care about who slept with whom.  Sure, he was a little surprised at exactly _which_ Mountie it was that Vecchio hooked up with -- _Turnbull?  Really?_ \-- but he still didn't care.  On a personal level, it was a nonissue; it didn't matter.

On a professional level, it did.  On a societal level, it did.  To some degree, on a psychological level alone, it still worried Welsh slightly.  But he didn't care about the homosexuality part.  It was the rest of it.

"No more ride-alongs," Welsh finally said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his desk, hands still folded together.

Vecchio looked briefly taken aback, and then he scowled. "Why?  My solve rate's good.  It's better with him than without him.  We work pretty good together."

"Yeah, you do," Welsh agreed.  For one, Vecchio solved more of his _own_ crimes without Fraser around to drag him off into some other crazy adventure.  For two, Turnbull was the only guy who Vecchio could even stand to work with these days.  And for three, they'd already been in a few hairy situations, and Welsh was kind of impressed that the somewhat goofy Mountie was a fair cop when he was actually out on the road.  "But still, no more ride-alongs.  He can't go with you anymore, Vecchio.  We got policies in place."

"Why, 'cause he's a guy?"  Vecchio looked about two seconds from a tirade to blister paint off the walls. "'Cause if that's the problem, I'll have you know--"

"No, because he's your significant other."  Welsh didn't raise his voice once, but he threw enough of an edge into it to stop that cold. "Officially, I can't force the issue.  Unofficially, I'm telling you: No more.  You know all the reasons why cops aren't allowed to work directly with their families."

That took a little edge off of Vecchio, and he looked down at his feet finally.  But then he was looking right back up again, "Hey, I work with Frannie every damn day--"

"Not on the road.  And when she gets her commission, she'll be in another precinct."  Welsh tapped his knuckles on the desk, just a soft rhythm he didn't think about. "There's too much potential for tragedy, Detective.  And you know it."

That put the brakes on Vecchio's indignation, and he turned his head to stare through the blinded windows.  A somewhat distant look.  Blank, but carefully so; he didn't want to let anyone know what he was thinking.

Welsh knew anyway.  He was thinking about Fraser.  He was thinking about the number of times that partnership nearly ended in tragedy.  He was almost tempted to ask Vecchio what had gone on there, too.  It hadn't been declared, though he wouldn't have been too shocked.

He didn't ask, though.  "Listen up, Vecchio: What you and him do on your time is your business.  I can't promise you that you won't get grief from other quarters, but as long as you do your job well on my time, you won't have a problem from me.  But I mean it: No ride-alongs.  I don't want one of you dead because you chased the other into a bad situation, using your heart instead of your head."

It was quite a long moment before Vecchio replied, "Yes, sir."

"Good."  Welsh looked down at the desk, then looked back up again with his eyebrows up. "Turnbull?  Really?  You fell for _Turnbull_?"

Vecchio looked back at Welsh, narrowing his eyes again and squaring his shoulders.  But there was a vague smirk across his mouth, like he had some secret he wanted to be smug over without giving it up. "Like fallin' off the edge of a cliff, Lieu."

Welsh couldn't quite get it.  It was, perhaps, the _last_ relationship he would have expected.  But there was another thing he couldn't -- even wouldn't -- deny: Whatever had come over Vecchio in the last few months had been a good thing.  He looked alive again, not like the shell of the man who had crawled back from Florida and who had swiped at people, like a bear, from his dark cave whenever they tried to come close.  Welsh couldn't get the relationship, but he could get that it made Vecchio happy.

"Just don't do that literally.  Dismissed, Detective."  And as Vecchio put his hand on the doorknob, Welsh added, "And good luck with your sister."

Vecchio's head fell and he winced.  "Thank you, sir."  He closed the door when he left.

Welsh leaned back in his chair again.  Rubbed both hands down his face.  He was not really looking forward to the next several weeks, while the rumors spread like wildfire and all of the homophobes came out of their holes.  Nor was he looking forward to Vecchio throwing down the gauntlets in bare defiance of it.  He wasn't looking forward to a lot of things.

Which was why it was as much a mystery to himself as to anyone else when he shook his head with a little smile.


	4. Bystander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the dust settles, Francesca Vecchio is left standing. Being outed was never going to be easy.

Francesca looked for all the world like a vase Renfield had knocked onto the floor. Shattered into a million pieces.

As the glee ebbed away, Renfield could only feel that must be exactly what she _was_.

Every second that passed, he wanted more to sink into the molecules of his chair; what on earth was Welsh saying, and couldn't he say it _quicker_?

Indeed, Renfield felt he was being a coward, hoping to flee the scene as soon as possible. Out of sight, out of mind.

This was the sort of sight that lingered.

With everyone, it seemed. Most people had gone back to their business; there was the distinct sound of hushed-not-hushed gossiping to go with the normal sounds of work at the precinct, but even they gave Francesca a wide berth. Huey gave her a pat on the shoulder, but it couldn't have helped that he was _laughing_ as he did it. Dewey was trying not to look at her.

Nobody was looking at Renfield.

Sitting by and fidgeting while the woman was clearly cracking was unforgivable cowardice. He stood. Every step was compelled by honor that trumped the recurring urge to hide under a desk. Nothing in him was sorry for loving Ray, but the fact of just what he'd done to Francesca over the course of her unlikely, unwanted and persistent courtship was immediately apparent.

He'd tried to let her down _easily_.

"I--"

It was strange how a single pair of eyes trained on him could be as much an interjection as any words. Hers found him as though she'd forgotten a world around her existed until he spoke; knowing he'd brought her back to reality didn't help the remorse.

For her, he felt naked. The sensation of the walls falling away to reveal himself at his most vulnerable, humiliated, so much further extended in emotion and risk than the object of his affection had ever been and so obviously clueless to that fact. Left oblivious. Because it was simpler. Because he was seen as too weak or sensitive to handle the truth of matters. Allowed to make a fool of himself to save the difficulty of honesty for someone else.

Renfield felt all these things for Francesca in that moment whether she felt them or not. From the look in those eyes, though, he knew she probably did.

He could no longer shield her from himself; he'd failed her terribly, but he could make some manner of weak amends now and attempt to shield her from the eyes of the room.

She was still eying him in a daze when he steered her gently for the hallway and someplace quieter.

 

Renfield found he couldn't _not_ talk, once they were alone. He opened his mouth and words simply poured from him.

"I am sorry. I have done a terrible thing to you and I know I must answer for it. I should have found an honest response to your--"

Somewhere between words and pain those file folders had scattered the floor again. The hand across his face was swift, hot, and he was grateful that the female shape of his assailant undercut the instinctive spike to beat the threat into an incapacitated grease spot upon the floor. Even that base, discarded impulse pinched guilt at his gut.

Widened eyes and his jaw slack in shock, he blinked at her, taking a very large step back.

He deserved that.

"You deserved that, you son of a bitch. Don't you apologize to me."

His mother, however, did not. _See here. You know precisely nothing about my mother, you suddenly decide I am your possession after tossing my interest away like so much litter in favor of Constable Perfection, you have dogged my every step for weeks and utterly failed to take - indeed, likely ignored - several very large hints, and-- and--_ He routed the anger spike off toward remembering to breathe. _...and I have still done terribly by you._

"I am sorry."

"Stick it," she hurled, hand raising like she might slap him again. She dropped it midway, snarling to herself. "Stay away from my family."

"I--"

"Shut _up_." Francesca was walking away on shaky legs, one hand out with splayed fingers, gesturing at Renfield like he was too repulsive even to look at.

Cheek reddened and sore, stetson pressed to his chest, Renfield stared after her for a moment before making to collect the fallen paperwork.


	5. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even a half-hour after they've outed themselves, it only gets harder from here.

There was a certain amount of release that came with not hiding anymore. It had been an accident, them coming out to the precinct, but it was an accident Ray not only was okay with, but glad for. It had gotten harder every single day to keep this thing of theirs quiet, and it just wasn't in Ray's nature to sneak around like that. Not when it came to love, not when it came to being _in love_ , and definitely not when it came to Renfield Turnbull.

Even this far into it, even having raked across their shared and separate issues a few times, even having it driven home a whole bunch of times how hard this relationship was gonna be, there wasn't a single part of Ray that could _regret_ it. Not even when he didn't feel all that worthy of it.

God knew what these people thought. Ray didn't care. He might have, before Vegas, but not anymore. Life was too damn short to give up something good just 'cause it wasn't socially or religiously acceptable.

He still wasn't entirely pleased when he walked out of Welsh's office, 'cause working with Ren was something he had liked doing even before they were together. They worked well off of each other; Ren's thoughtfulness and observation filled in the gaps left from Ray's year and some long absence, and Ray's experience and Chicago street-smarts filled in the gaps left by Ren's fairly limited time actually doing policework. They were a good team. None of the insanity that followed Benny around like a curse, but efficient and well-oiled by now.

It was gonna be damn hard to give that up. But Ray was still riding his defiance. They'd figure it out, somehow.

"Might want to..." Huey said as Ray came out of the office, and that was right about the time Ray's gut sank, as Huey gestured around the corner to the hallway. Because there wasn't a Mountie sitting at his desk, or a sister sitting at her own.

"Yeah," Ray replied and headed around the corner.

There were papers everywhere, and Ren was standing there with a very distinct handprint staining his cheek even redder than it already was, a clear and familiar impression. There was no sign of Frannie, and no one had dared walk into the hallway; Ray could see someone at the other end do a quick peek around and then decide better of it.

"Hey," he said, quietly, stepping over and reaching up to brush his thumb light against Ren's un-handprinted-cheek, having stepped way past the line where he would think about keeping the gesture to himself not even fifteen minutes before. "Hey, what happened?"

"I apologized," Ren answered, briefly closing his eyes and leaning his face against Ray's hand. Something distinctly miserable cut across his expression, and Ray _hated_ that look, 'cause he knew that look meant Ren was currently eating himself alive inside. "I'm afraid-- that is to say, I realized..."

"She's just upset. No call to hit you," Ray said, and not surprisingly, he wanted to do absolutely _anything_ to drive that look away, fix it, make it okay again, hold this guy he was in love with. He also knew enough to know it wasn't always so easy as that.

"She has a very good reason to be." Renfield picked his head up, shaking it slightly. "I should have simply... simply _told her_. Perhaps not about us, but I should have been honest with her in that I couldn't return her affections."

Ray breathed out; it was amazing how fast he could go from giddy at finally getting what he'd wanted -- no more hiding -- to defiance against the renewed realization of how much trouble it was gonna cause, to a settling sense of dread and guilt. Part because of his sister, part because of Ren. "Yeah, well, so should I. But it's not like we set out to make her miserable, Ren. It's not like we had some horrible secret plan in place to ruin her life, just 'cause we're together, you know? I love her, but I'm not about to apologize to her about this. She's the one who said--"

He cut himself off, then continued, "Let me try talking to her. But we didn't go doing this to her on purpose."

"I know," Ren said, reaching up to rub at his forehead. "It's just-- I've been--"

It only took a moment for Ray to put it together and he wanted to rhythmically bump his forehead off of the wall. Or go beat someone up. Even knew which someone that was.

He took a breath and stepped in closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Ren's face, and dropped his voice, "This ain't the same, Ren. You didn't lead her on, you didn't get into a relationship with her, then keep lying about things until they fell apart, you didn't tell her you loved her when you didn't. Okay? All we did was not tell anyone, and that's _not_ a crime."

There was a long moment of quiet where he could all but feel Ren thinking over those words, and when Ray drew back, he could see just a hint of uncertainty in the self-recrimination. Some kinda foot-hold.

"Lemme go talk to her. We can wear some matching handprints or something," Ray said, and felt at least one thing uncoil inside of him when Ren put their foreheads together.

"I'd strongly prefer she not hit you," Ren said, softly.

"If that's the worst that comes outta this, good-lookin', I'll be comin' out ahead."

Ray had no idea how he could smile at that, but he did.

It was a whole lot harder to draw back from Ren than he thought it shoulda been; like maybe if they could just stay like that, all close together, the world would get the picture that this wasn't somethin' it got to register an opinion on.

Reality was reality, though. "Which way did she go?" he asked.

Ren tipped his head up at the other end of the hallway. "I'll go with you."

"Okay." Ray fought down the urge to reach down and take his hand. Not out of embarrassment, but just 'cause he didn't want to pour any salt in any wounds right now. He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck and pulled himself back together. Let someone else clean up the paperwork, this time.

Ren must have had some of the same urge; he brushed his fingers against Ray's, then straightened up, his duty-mask slipping into place, still marred by a red handprint.

Frannie was nowhere to be found, though. Her car was gone from the parking lot, and that was a real bad sign.

"I'll bet she went home," Ray said, something inside of his veins chilling cold and then steeling up.

Twenty-two minutes after they came out to the precinct, Ray and Renfield were climbing into the Riv to go and do damage control.


	6. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vecchio family gets a bomb dropped on them.

Ray stood with his back facing the door, in the foyer, like he was ready to leap in any direction. Close behind his shoulder, more a statue, stood a Mountie still in uniform. Ma was standing on the other end of the foyer, staring in slack-jawed disbelief. Frannie had her head dropped; she stood next to Maria, rubbing at her forehead.

Thank God Maria's husband wasn't there with the children.

When Frannie had come in, angry and hurt, Maria was surprised. When Frannie told her why, though, Maria just couldn't fathom it. It sounded like a joke, but it wasn't April 1st.

"Renfield's dating someone else," she had said, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes welled up. But Maria could see the humiliation, and immediately winced and opened her mouth to say that he was just a bastard, then, if he couldn't see what was right in front of him and then-- "Renfield's dating _Ray_."

The spike of panic that had hit Maria was immediately held in check when she scrambled around mentally, and she had said 'no' a few times before asking if it was Ray _Kowalski_ because it couldn't be...

No. It just couldn't be. "Oh, that's crazy," she had said, the flippancy of the tone utterly at odds with the quiver in her voice. "You're just seeing things. Ray wouldn't do that! I'll bet it's all a setup--"

"No." Frannie had looked out of the window for a moment, arm hugged around herself, then wiped her eyes with her other palm. "It's true. God. I didn't see it, but I can now. That-- that--"

"Ray's not one of those." Maria had shaken her head again, and couldn't stop shaking it. "He doesn't... he doesn't do _guys_ , Frannie, he was married! To Ange!"

"He does this guy." Frannie's voice was still hurt and angry, low and bitter now.

Which was when they heard the shattering of glass and turned and saw their mother standing in the kitchen door, staring with wide, dark eyes and disbelief.

Now, Maria looked between them, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with Ma, trying to really grasp what was happening here. First, her brother decides he's going to take some lengthy undercover assignment to Las-fricken-Vegas. Then they get a stand-in, Ray Kowalski, who Maria had to admit was a real decent guy; he'd come over sometimes for dinner, check on them, make sure the bills were paid with her brother's FBI-sent paychecks, play with the kids. Didn't stop them from missing Ray, though. Then Ray came back, and then he ran away to Florida like a child hopping on a freight train with some toys in a handkerchief with his fictional princess.

Then Ray came back again. Except, in a lot of ways... he never came back at all.

Now, he stood there like he was facing a firing squad, and the only person who could look and see that he was holding hands with the Mountie was Maria. Neither Ma, nor Frannie, could seem to make themselves look up to do it.

"Why?" their mother asked, and her eyes were welled up; the tone still wasn't angry, so much as hurt and disbelieving, and Maria wanted to kick Ray right in the shin, right then, except she still hated the thought of bruises on her brother's body, and had since they were little. But she wanted to, because he hadn't really come back at all, hadn't really let them back into his life; sometimes, it felt like maybe they buried Ray and no one really could remember when.

"I love him, Ma," Ray answered, and that tone was hurt, imploring, certain, defiant, composed, factual; in that moment, Maria wanted to hold him and maybe shoot death-glares at the man who dared hold her brother's hand like he had somehow earned a place in Ray's life that even his own _family_ couldn't seem to reclaim. It was one sentence, and it felt like the whole world had shifted on its axis.

"You should go," Frannie said, not picking her head up, and Maria knew it was because she was trying to hide her tears, another thing left over from when they were kids. Maria wanted to kick Ray again, for stealing the man their sister had been making a try for; wanted to kick the Mountie for never outright just telling Frannie no, for leading her on like that, and most of all, for touching her big brother like he had a right to.

"I love you, too," Ray said, turning to leave.

Maria wasn't going to let him go.

"No." It was their mother's voice, issued from Maria's mouth, and even Ray stopped for the sound of it. It was the Mountie that turned around first. Somehow that galled her even more. She advanced on the _person_ holding her brother's hand, finger extended. "Who do you think you are?"

The Mountie didn't answer, only tipping up his chin, and it doused Maria's flaming anger in kerosene and set the flat of her hand swinging right for his arrogant face.

Ray was between them before it could land and he was staring her down, holding her by the wrist.

"Maria--"

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, wrenching her wrist from Ray's grip, pressing hard up against her brother and shoving that extended finger over his shoulder to the man that stood behind it. "No. _No_. What, you think you belong here? Look at yourself. Red shirt, stupid pants, what do you figure you are? Huh? Saw yourself an easy mark? Looking for a couple more bullets? Think he's gonna mortgage the house for you, too? Whatever you think you're doing, you're _sick_ , and whoever you think you are, you're _nothing_."

"Maria!" Ray snapped at her, putting his hands to her shoulders and pushing her back carefully, looking shocked and hurt and appalled.

She didn't care. "No! You're not right, Ray. You're not right and _he_ is taking advantage of that, and I don't know what your angle is, pal," she yelled back, pushing up against Ray again to stab her finger at the Mountie, "but you _keep your hands off of my brother!_ "

"That's it. That's enough." Ray pushed her back again, then turned around, shielding the object of Maria's ire with his back to her and pretty much shoving him out the door, though still carefully, with a hand between his shoulder blades.

She thought she would've climbed her brother's back to get to the guy, get him to _say something_ , answer for himself-- but she felt a tug on her own.

Frannie had her by the shoulder. She turned to look at her sister, hurt and tearful and wanting the whole damn thing to just be over, and when she turned back, Ray was gone.


	7. Disseminated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumors fly as everyone tries to adjust.

"I heard she punched him in the nose."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Apparently he walked out of here with it bleeding all over his uniform. And he was _crying_."

"Sounds like him."

 

 

"I mean, Turnbull. _Really_? I always knew Turnbull was weird, but Vecchio?"

"Makes you wonder about Fraser, huh?"

"Fraser? No way that guy was queer."

"'Course he wasn't. But maybe Vecchio was looking for more than a replacement partner, if you know what I mean."

"I don't wanna know what you mean. God, that's sick."

"Isn't it? Here, gimme that, I'm hungry."

"Take it. Wish they'd get some better coffee around here. They expect me to deal with these punks running on nothing but this sludge?"

"Keep wishing. Maybe the resident fairies'll grant it."

 

 

"Kissing."

"No _way_."

"Really! Right on Vecchio's desk!"

"You're serious."

"Yep."

"He was _not_."

"Who asked you, Dewey?"

"I was _there_. He only threatened to kiss 'im. Thank God."

"Nice face, Tom."

"What? Nobody wants to see that. You ask me, I say they should keep that stuff to themselves. I don't care what they do, I just don't want it shoved in my face."

"You'll have the full force of my displeasure shoved in your face if you keep it up, Detective." Welsh appeared from nowhere. He was good at that. He leaned on Dewey's desk like he belonged on it, and looked at everyone gossiping like every canny high school teacher that ever caught them smoking. "All right, listen up."

It was called out. It wasn't a voice anyone could argue with.

"The gossip stops here. I know I can't stop you people from flapping your mouths, but at the very least, you're not going to do it here. You got a problem? Take it out of my precinct. I hear any more of this crap and I'll stand you in a corner like a bunch of little kids. You got me?"

 

Frannie hadn't let anyone in her door since their brother had left.

Ma cooked dinner with stiff shoulders, staring into the pot like it was a door to a scene a million miles away.

Maria had slammed herself against the front door, pressing on it with her back, like she could keep the devastation outside if she could only press hard enough.

When Tony got home, she'd yanked him into the bathroom and dumped the entire mess on him in one hushed go. She slapped his arm when all he had for an answer was a disbelieving snort, but even then, she pressed herself into his chest just to breathe while he held her up.

The kids knew something was wrong. They walked around like they were waiting for something bad to happen. Speaking up quietly, like they might set something off.

It all reminded Maria way too damn much of her childhood.

It was the quietest dinner the Vecchio household could remember having in a long, long time.

 

 

Ray's Mountie was quiet in the passenger seat.

Now and then Ren's nostrils would flare as he breathed. Just a little labored. Enough to go unnoticed by most people, but not Ray. Neat trick.

He glanced to his own hands on the steering wheel. _Don't think it's gonna run away on you._


	8. Road

John had given him his first car, just before he reported to Regina. They had managed to forge a tentative bond over the year prior; not quite a friendship, not quite brotherly, but a mutual respect. They both loved the same woman dearly, and finally Renfield was ready to hand off his sister, even if only in his own mind, and trust that the man she would marry would keep her safe.

It was also the first time that Renfield, now fully-licensed as a driver, realized that he could throw his heart at the road. The older white sedan only had four cylinders, but when he left Toronto for Regina, he pressed the accelerator to the floor and listened to the beat of the engine and felt just that little bit better. He only pulled his foot off the gas after he was going just a little too fast, coasting back down to the posted limit, and feeling the thrum in his veins of anticipation, of hope, of giddy nerves, of joy, of sorrow leaving home, all transmitted through the steering wheel from the tires on the road.

 

The second time he did that was leaving Regina at his back, and again he shoved down the accelerator, hammered the sedan, let it snarl where he didn't; relief and anger and anxiety and raw, bloody-minded determination that they had not _broken him_ , no matter how damn hard they had tried.

The sky to the north was clear that day.

 

When he went south, he had the sedan's pedal to the floor again. But it was too late; there was no outrunning what had happened.

The engine that answered his demands was missing four cylinders.

It didn't stop him from running anyway.

 

He left the sedan in Toronto, took a bus to Chicago, and aside brief trips in the Consulate's vehicle by necessity, Renfield didn't drive again. He didn't _consciously_ avoid it. It was simply inconvenient in the city, his apartments didn't have very good parking, public transportation was fine, he didn't want to risk the Consulate vehicle even on official runs. There were a thousand legitimate reasons not to drive, and so, he didn't. Economically speaking, environmentally speaking, logistically speaking. All good reasons. All perfectly legitimate reasons. He couldn't even claim he missed it. It wasn't that _important_ , it simply wasn't.

Until Ray. Until the Riviera.

Until he was reminded that it _was_.

 

Eight cylinders growled and Renfield growled and the Riviera answered his demands without a hesitation; tried to flatten him back into his seat and certainly flattened Ray. But Ray never made a sound. It had only been ten minutes after leaving the Vecchio household that Renfield asked to drive, and Ray had pulled over so that they could switch seats. Not long later, and they were on the freeway.

There was no thought in Renfield's head of the speed limit. And Ray must have understood; he didn't protest. There were no words. Just the sound of the engine and the tires on the road, blazing a trail, and a thousand unspoken thoughts and a thousand more unspoken feelings; anger and hurt and desperation and hope and fear and loss and determination.

He should have snarled at them.

He threw his heart at the road instead.

No idea where he was going. No real idea where he had been, for that matter. All he knew was _this_ , and _this_ would be enough.

 

The water had the bite of September and Ray was still looking shocked, wide-eyed as he stood in his soaked suit and tried to stay upright in the waves that were pounding the shores of Lake Michigan in the lowering golden light of evening.

"I _love you_ ," Renfield said, fiercely, desperately, over the sound of the crashing, holding Ray by his upper arms and trying to wash away the ugly words and the ugly rejection and the utter uncertainty of the future and crack through that shell of quiet and _lost_ and bring back the Dunes and the summer and dancing at Montrose Harbor and everything good they had built. Even though he knew it would never replace what Ray was cut away from now.

There was a moment where Ray just kept staring, as though he could not believe he had been dragged this far and dragged into a lake, and then something, _something_ cracked and he latched back onto Renfield's arms in turn, huffing out a breath that he might have been holding since they closed the door on Octavia. "You couldn't have said that on dry land, Ren?"

But the tone was loving and breathless and just that bit amused, and something in Renfield let go.

"No," he answered, just this side of cracked, and dug his boots into the sand and wrapped his arms around Ray, tight, enough to hold them both up in the waves. "Yes," he answered again, just this side of a sob, when Ray held on back, despite soaked suits and soaked serge.

"Not goin' anywhere?" Ray asked, and it was a little tight, and just barely loud enough to hear.

Renfield dug his nails in, put his teeth to Ray's neck, and oblivious to his own tears, he let that be his answer.


	9. Epilogue

His uniform had taken home a sizable amount of Lake Michigan.

Renfield had taken home Ray.

Tony had brought Ray's clothes. There was a part of Renfield that was disappointed for that; clothing him from his own drawers felt like another layer he could impress between Ray and the open world. If Tony had an opinion on the whole mess beyond a shrug and a low whistle, he didn't offer it. Renfield had just tried not to think about who would've provided Tony with his address.

The divide between the letter he'd gotten and the reply he wanted to send now seemed impossible to bridge. He forced it anyway.

 _Dearest Myra,_

 _Please likewise forgive the delay in my response. You are right; I am happy for this news. I am honored that you would name a son for me._

 _It was not long after I took possession of your letter that Ray and I became unexpectedly public. In some quarters, the matter became confrontational. Ray is now estranged from his family._

 _I am uncertain of when I will see you. I would be grateful for your updates when you have them._

 _Give my best to John._

 _Renfield_


End file.
